Death of a Postman

by John Creasey

  She didn’t turn away. She frowned a little, as if she didn’t understand why his lips trembled or the way he looked at her.

  Her lips moved.

  “Where is Derek?” she asked. “You’re not Derek.”

  “Yes, thank you very much, I shall be perfectly all right,” Micky said firmly. “I’m much better now, and I’m only sorry that I made a fool of myself.” He didn’t smile, and he kept his voice very steady; as if he had drilled himself into hiding his emotion. “It must be because I’ve had rather an upsetting time.”

  The Sister said briskly: “Yes, that must be it. Are you sure you won’t have another cup of tea?”

  “No, thank you. I must get back to my mother, now.”

  “Yes, of course,” said the Sister. “Tell her that I don’t think it will be long before Miss Harrison remembers everyone again.”

  “Thank you,” said Micky. “Thanks very much.” He sounded, he looked and he felt very young. But he walked smartly along the rubber floored corridors and down the stairs and as smartly past the reception desk, without looking right or left, and still smartly down to the foot of the steps. Nearby was his pedal bicycle. He mounted the machine and cycled off, and one of the porters watched him, frowning; the lad hardly seemed to be looking where he was going.

  Just round the corner, Micky pulled into the kerb and sat on the saddle, one foot on the kerb, the other on a pedal. He couldn’t keep the scalding tears away, but at least he could make sure that no one saw them. He dabbed fiercely at his eyes with a handkerchief, and averted his face whenever anyone came along.

  He felt better, after a few minutes.

  “Don’t be a fool,” he muttered, don’t be a helpless kid. I’m grown up, I’m in the Army, I’m nearly nineteen.”

  His jaws hurt, where he had gritted them so tightly.

  “If I could find the devil who did it,” he said in a harsh voice, “I’d kill him with my own hands.”

  He didn’t know how absurd it sounded. He didn’t know how theatrical he looked. There was no one to see him at that moment. He dabbed his eyes again, and felt sure that he was over the paroxysm, then cycled off. He was better, and felt equally sure that he wouldn’t break down again. He had good news, really, because he’d actually heard May speak, and the only snag was that Derek hadn’t turned up.

  He was less worried about Derek than anyone else was; Derek was one of the permanent people in life, like –

  Only when he reached the corner did he realise that it was snowing, and he looked about him with a sudden excitement, a legacy from his so recent childhood. Why, it was getting quite thick! He felt the tyres crunch through the snow, and saw the difference it made to the streets, the houses, the greyness. Oddly, he was almost light hearted.

  It took him nearly half an hour to reach home; yet he had lost ten minutes just outside the hospital. The policeman who had been on duty when he had left was still there; and there was the now familiar look of compassion. Micky didn’t realise or recognise it.

  “Your mother’s still in,” the policeman said.

  “Anyone with her?”

  “Only Mrs Trentham.”

  “Oh, that’s good,” said Micky. Rosa Trentham was the one neighbour he could face now. He braced himself and went in, reminding himself that he was taking good news. He marched straight past the little hallstand, the door of the small room, and into the kitchen. Mrs Trentham was standing with a bread knife in her hand, calling towards the scullery:

  “Here he is, Kath; I told you you were worrying yourself for nothing. Hallo, Micky, how is she?” The question came quickly and bluffly; and it helped the boy.

  His mother appeared at the kitchen door.

  Micky’s eyes were bright.

  “I saw her; she looks fine,” he said, and then had to overdo it. “She looks lovely, she does really, and Sister says she’s better. She—she woke up, too.”

  His mother said swiftly, eagerly: “Did she recognise you?”

  “Well,” said Micky awkwardly, “not exactly, but she knew I was a man. As a matter of fact, she asked for Derek; she knew I wasn’t Derek, anyhow I And honestly, she was looking fine.”

  “Well, what did I tell you?” asked Rosa Trentham. “If only Derek would come back—but it doesn’t matter whether he does or not until she’s a bit better, and he’s bound to turn up. Like a bad penny—they always do. Eh, Micky? Want a cup of tea, son?”

  “No, thanks, they gave me some at the hospital.”

  “Well, we’ll have one,” said Mrs Trentham. “Turn the kettle up, Kath. And what about those few oddments from the shop? If you don’t get them this afternoon you won’t be able to get that mincemeat done tonight, and as you insist on doing it …”

  The snow came down only lightly during the night, and there was a thin carpet which quickly melted in the roads under the assault of gravel, salt and traffic. Roger was at the Yard early, with paper work in plenty but little else. The one thing he did not look forward to was the funeral of Tom Bryant, but he was there.

  Snow still lay thinly on the cemetery grass and on the mounds which covered the recently filled graves. It was bitterly cold. Micky was with his mother, but none of the other children had been allowed to come. There were hundreds of mourners and masses of flowers; neighbours, work mates, friends from the church, from clubs and organizations. The funeral service had a kind of frozen solemnity.

  The only time that Kath Bryant broke down was at the graveside, as she dropped her wreath into the earth to which her husband had returned.

  Roger drove away from the cemetery, and went to River Way. The snow made traffic jams and indescribable confusion. Carmichael was like an automaton; Farnley looked positively ill. Turnbull was there, but even he was subdued.

  “Checked every van in the place, every drawer, desk, key and locker,” he said, “and we haven’t found that print again.”

  “Keep looking,” Roger said. “Everything laid on to guard valuables and registered parcels?”

  “Every damned thing.”

  “Good,” Roger said.

  He went out in the yard, talked to one or two temporary workers, and then to Kilby, who had nothing to report, except: “I was out this morning with the van driver Simm, sir.”

  “How does he rate?”

  “Works very hard,” said Kilby, “and made up half an hour—we went for a drink.”

  “Like that, is it?” Roger said. “He probably did that the other day, too.”

  He was driving back to the Yard with his radio receiver on, when he heard his own name coming over. He flicked the transmitter on. “West calling.”

  “Message just come in, Mr West,” the radio operator said. “May Harrison’s recovered her memory, sir.”

  Roger said: “Fine!” He switched off and swung round at the next corner; and he reached the hospital in ten minutes. He didn’t wait to have his name sent up but reached the Sister’s office on the private floor.

  The Sister said firmly: “The doctor’s orders are emphatic, Chief Inspector. Miss Harrison is not to be questioned for longer than two minutes.”

  “That’ll be enough,” Roger said.

  He went into the ward. The police nurse was sitting in her corner, and May Harrison sitting up in bed. She looked quite normal. Obviously she recognised him, and yet wasn’t at all perturbed.

  Surely she would have been if she knew that her assailant had been Derek. Roger said quietly: “I’m very glad you’re better, Miss Harrison. Just one essential question, then I won’t bother you again.”

  “I’ll tell you anything I can,” she promised.

  “Did you see the face of the man who attacked you?”

  “No, not even a glimpse,” she said.

  He found it hard to believe that she was lying. He found it harder to tell her that Derek was still missing. He was glad that she was to go back to Clapp Street that evening.

  Nothing would break; nothing went their way; but it couldn’t go on like this, Roger tr
ied to persuade himself. The whole picture was of gloom. A blizzard, raging in the north and midlands, was on its way south. It was bitterly cold, and had been as fruitless a day as Roger had known for a long time. But next morning there was a little break in the clouds, when Johnny Silver rang up.

  “Got a bit of a line on young Derek Bryant,” he said. “Not in person, but he’s cropped up in a different way. He’s been to Didi Ames’s place several times. Carmichael had competition!”

  “Sure about that?” Roger demanded sharply.

  “Positive. There’s a nosy parker widower in a house opposite. I’ve more.”

  “What?”

  “His father’s been a visitor there.”

  “Tom Bryant?” This was almost unbelievable.

  “That’s how I got on to it. Had a word with the widower in the street; I’d picked him out as a know all. He was full of importance because he’d actually seen the murdered man.”

  “When was it?”

  “Two or three days before the murder. I can’t pin him down any closer.”

  “Keep trying,” urged Roger. “Anything on Didi Ames?”

  “She cold shouldered everyone last night,” said Silver. “I didn’t get a chance.”

  “Was Carmichael at the nightclub?”

  “No, and he didn’t visit her, either, went straight to his Paddington place, and she went straight to St John’s Wood.”

  “I wonder if they’ve quarrelled,” Roger mused.

  He rang off and immediately the telephone rang again. There was hardly time to think even about Tom Bryant and Didi Ames.

  Kilby didn’t quite know what had happened to him, but he did know that the Bryant job wasn’t just another investigation. He’d never felt a crime so deeply, for it gave him an almost personal hatred for the killer. He had another driving force, too. West had given him a pretty free hand, and he wanted to justify it.

  He watched every move of Carmichael and Simm. He found excuses for going down to the maintenance department, which was near some cloakrooms, and where some of the old tunnels were used as store rooms. He put his mind to work on every aspect of the job, but it was an accident which put him on the right track.

  He found some sheets of brown wrapping paper, used for rewrapping damaged parcels, and they were identical with those in which the pieces of the body had been wrapped.

  He could have telephoned the Yard then.

  He didn’t, but went to the store rooms. The brown paper was in one of the old tunnels, and the door wasn’t kept locked. He had only one hope, there: to find the familiar print. He switched on the light, and began to look round, with the door ajar.

  It was a low roofed tunnel, with racks at the walls, and there was a strong smell of disinfectant. Kilby, head bent to save himself from hitting it on the ceiling, kept sniffing. Why use so much disinfectant in a stationery store room?

  He went towards the far end, and saw that the floor and the walls there had been swabbed down. With an almost choking sense of excitement, he went down on one knee to look at a stain in a corner. Men were walking about outside in the passage, and someone was hammering; he didn’t give that a thought.

  He didn’t know that a man came creeping in, until he heard a faint sound behind him. On his knee, he tried to twist round.

  He was too late. A blow smashed on to the back of his head, and he slumped down …

  He knew nothing of being dragged behind the stationery racks, and being left there; or of the light being switched off, and the door closed and locked.

  It did not surprise Roger that there was no message from Kilby, who wouldn’t report unless he had news. Roger hardly gave the sergeant a thought, but tried to make up his mind whether to leave Johnny Silver to deal with Didi Ames, or whether to tackle her himself.

  He gave Silver one more night.

  In the house in Clapp Street there was a semblance of normality. Although taking it easy, May was much more herself. There was a round of shopping and the inevitable extra work for Kath Bryant. Micky, with a month’s compassionate leave, ran most of the errands. He liked to be out. In different ways, the expression in his mother’s and in May’s eyes hurt him.

  About the time of the attack on Kilby, Micky cycled towards the Wandsworth Bridge Road and the shops, armed with a list and a shopping bag. The sound of the tyres crunching through the snow, now an inch or so thick, was pleasant and in its way thrilling. He felt much more normal. He turned the corner of the street, noticing a man standing near a lamp post a little farther along, with a cloth cap on, and his coat collar turned up. He saw the man step forward, and heard him call: “Say, you.”

  Micky braked cautiously, and the wheels didn’t skid. He turned lie front wheel towards the kerb.

  “Want something?” He couldn’t see the other’s face very well, he was so huddled up in his coat and the hat brim was pulled so low over his eyes. He was a youth, not a man.

  “You Micky Bryant?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Got a message for you.”

  “For me?”

  “S’right. Message from chap named Derek.”

  Micky caught his breath. “My—my brother?”

  “S’right.”

  Micky swung his leg over the crossbar and asked eagerly: “Where is he, do you know? I want to see him ever so badly.”

  “He’s in a jam.”

  “What?”

  “In a jam, in a hole, bit of a squeeze, tight corner, see.”

  “In—in a jam!”

  “That’s what I said. Doesn’t want anyone to know where he is, and there’s something you can do to help him. Says he’s sure you will; if you don’t it might mean a lot more trouble for your Ma.”

  The elation faded but the excitement remained.

  “What—what does he want me to do?”

  “Got any cash?”

  “Well, not much, I—I’ve got a few pounds.”

  “He wants you to take as much cash as you can lay your hands on, and go to Baker Street Station—you know. The entrance at the corner. What time can you be there?”

  Micky said stammeringly: “I don’t know, I—”

  “Wouldn’t let your own brother down, would you?” That was a sneer.

  “No, but I—”

  “What time can you be there? How about going right away?”

  “I can’t, I’ve some things to get for my mother, but—is it very bad?”

  “Derek thinks it is,” sneered the youth. His eyes were more clearly visible, now, in the gathering dusk; they glinted as if they were nearly black. “They’re trying to pin a murder rap on him, and just for a few quid you can help him beat it.”

  “I’ll get there as soon as I can, but it can’t be until six o’clock,” Micky said desperately. “Will that be all right?”

  “It’ll have to be. Know the station?”

  “Isn’t it near Madame Tussaud’s?”

  “Yeah.” The youth leaned forward a little. Now Micky saw that he had a thin, pointed nose and a moustache which wasn’t real; it couldn’t be. “Okay, six sharp, see. Don’t say a word to no one. Bring as much nicker as you can, and don’t forget your brother needs help.”

  “I—I don’t think I can bring much more than ten pounds,” Micky said. “I’ll try, though. If I don’t hurry now I’ll be late.”

  “Then hurry, chum,” the youth said, “and not a word to anyone, see. Don’t split to your Ma or anyone else, not if you want to help Derek.”

  “I—I won’t.”

  “You’d better not,” the youth said.

  He turned and slouched away, making no sound in the snow which was now over an inch thick, and falling fast. It was then half past four.

  Micky was followed from the comer of Wandsworth Bridge Road, although he did not know it. The youth followed him; and made sure that no one else took note of the way Micky went. It did not occur to him to find out if he was being watched as he rode through the driving snow towards the Post Office near the li
brary. When he got in, he groaned. It was bulging with people in front of the counter and parcels behind it. Half a dozen girls seemed to be working with frantic rhythm. The bang bang bang of rubber stamps seemed ceaseless. So did the murmur of voices. It was stuffy and hot. It was wet underfoot. Most people were grumbling at the delay, but there were fewer at the Pensions and Savings Bank counter than anywhere else. It took Micky ten minutes to draw out ten pounds from his savings book, all that he could on demand. Now, he had twelve pounds.

  The saddle of his bicycle was covered with snow when he got outside. There was a lot of slush at the kerbs. Rumbling buses crunched over this as they went along. Cars were going slowly, and every now and again there was the clank clank clank of tyre chains. Older people on the pavements walked very cautiously, and several slipped. Children at one corner were giggling as they stood with snowballs in their hands. A man, passing, muttered: “Damned kids,” but no one stopped them. Lights from the cars, the shop windows and the lamp standards showed how heavily the snow was falling.

  Micky thought: ‘I’m going to be late.’

  He knew the way across London well, for in the summers of his schooldays he hid spent a lot of time at Lord’s. He knew that road conditions would be very bad, but probably easier on the side roads. He didn’t realise that another youth followed him, on a bicycle. All he worried about was keeping his balance, keeping the snow out of his eyes, and getting to the rendezvous in time. He couldn’t move the gauntlets off his wrists to see what the time was, but every now and again he passed a public clock, or one outside a shop: it was ten minutes to six when he was within sight of Baker Street.

  He reached the station at seven minutes to.

  Streams of people were hurrying towards the subways which took them out of the snowstorm, as if they were flakes which melted into the semi darkness of the station itself. They disappeared by the hundred; by the thousand. Micky stood at one side, trying to see the faces of the people, expecting to see Derek, wondering desperately – as he had from the beginning – what was really the matter with Derek. The suspicion that Derek might have had something to do with the attack on May actually entered his head.

  He shied away from it, and all that it would imply.